


Communication Issues

by HanginWithLilJ (FlyDizzeeD)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Eventual OT6, Fake AH Crew, Kidnapping, Multi, Rating May Change, Ryan has speech problems, Ryan-centric, Trans Ryan, lotsa murder, nonbinary Geoff, tags will update, this is how Ryan met the crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyDizzeeD/pseuds/HanginWithLilJ
Summary: Ryan had always had trouble communicating. Thankfully, nobody in Los Santos was looking for friends, and they sure as hell weren't looking for a friendly chat when they hired the Vagabond.  But, as bad as Ryan is at communication, he manages to meet five guys who are even worse.





	1. Chapter 1

For as long as Ryan could remember, he had always been bad with words.

It had started young. As soon as words started making sense to him, his early efforts to communicate had been notably poor. His parents had brushed it aside as a childhood lisp, or something to that effect. He was on his own to figure things out and try to make his mouth work. It wasn't too big of a deal for a few years, but then Ryan found himself in a new situation...

School. 

Determined to make friends, he had immediately introduced himself to his classmates. It took about five minutes for the taunting to begin, and a week for his teacher to send him to the counselor's office. His parents were called, a suggestion was made, and he had his first speech therapy appointment at the ripe old age of five. He was young and eager, so his progress was fast. Unfortunately, it wasn't fast enough for his parents. He saw his therapist five times before his mother started making excuses for not getting him to his appointments. She insisted they just never had time, but next week they would go. Eventually, trying therapist's office stopped calling to offer appointments. None of it meant much to Ryan then, too young to know what effect his parents’ decision would have on him later. 

He became the quiet kid mostly out of necessity. There was a small handful of friends throughout elementary school who he would actually talk to, and he loved when he could. Ryan didn't want to be quiet, but he also didn't want to be bullied. When he tripped over his words and got it all backwards, his chest would get tight with anxiety as he anticipated what his classmates would say to him later when the adults weren't watching so closely. Thankfully, his teachers learned quickly every school year to not call on him for reading out loud.

Middle school was, of course, difficult. His parents divorced, but that wasn't much of a surprise. What was a surprise was when he realized there was a name for what he was. It wasn't a nice name, but learning the word gave him access to a wealth of information. By the time he was in highschool, he had given himself a new identity that everyone ignored and two floating ribs from tight bandages. He tripped over his words and into freshman year.

Ryan had improved in some ways. He was far better with figuring out what he wanted to say. It was just the delivery that got dicey. As he spoke, new thoughts popped into his head to replace the current ones. They slipped in, tore his sentence apart, and made him stumble and mispronounce basic nouns. Usually he laughed it off. Sometimes other people laughed it off for him. Sophomore year dragged by in a brutal mess of slurs and insults.

Junior year never came. He had better places to be.

He got robbed his first day in Los Santos.

The mugger made quick work of snatching his wallet and taking off. Ryan chased him for a few blocks before calling it quits. He was briefly grateful that he was poor as shit-- there hadn't been anything valuable in that wallet besides his license. Sighing, he pulled the last of his money out of his pocket. The crumpled fifty would have to do. Thankfully, Ryan was resourceful. He had been on his own for the most part since his parents separated. He quickly located a shitty, rundown by-the-hour motel and checked in. 

The man hanging out by the gas station next door whistled at Ryan when he walked over. “Hey, sweetheart. Buy me a six pack and I'll let you keep the change.” He said, leaning against the side of the building heavily and reeking of booze. The drunkard must have known there was no way the cashier would sell to him. Ryan considered ignoring him, but the man was drunk enough to be holding out forty dollars when the beer would cost less than ten. 

“I'm uh… I'm not 21.” He said instead.

The man grimaced. “You don't have a fake?”

Ryan just shrugged, not trusting his voice further.

“How about you take my ID, buy the beer, and I tell you where you can get one?” He offered. “They don't really look at ‘em anyway.”

And it was in that fashion that Ryan had a fake ID with his real name within the week. Seeing the name on the plastic made him smile like an idiot every time. Things were finally starting to look up for him. Life was going his way for the first time, and it felt good.

Two years passed before Ryan killed someone.

By then he had two jobs, a dying motorcycle, and an apartment. None of it was in a safe part of town, but an argument could be made that there was no such thing as a safe part of Los Santos to begin with. As such, Ryan also had a gun. It wasn't much; a cheap pistol he'd gotten from the guy two floors down who specialized in illegal weapons and stolen vehicles. He'd gotten the bike from the same guy. The gun was kept casually on his coffee table at home, and concealed in his jacket when out and about. He took no chances.

His investment paid itself off in the mostly empty parking lot behind the dive bar where he cleaned tables for half of minimum wage. As the sun came up, his shift was over. The last few patrons stumbled out the front door while he left through the back, his motorcycle just twenty feet away. The dawn provided only a bit of light, but it was enough to see his bike. It was not enough to see the figure leaning against the back of the building. 

The world slowed down when he heard rapid steps. He turned around, but by the time he was facing the person they were landing a punch to his gut. Ryan doubled over in pain, the air knocked out of him. They took that moment to shove him to the ground. He thrashed around, and got them off of him, but it was too late. He felt a hand slip into his jacket pocket, grab his wallet, and quickly snatch it away. Cursing, he tried to grab them but couldn't get a grip. They slid away, got back to their feet, and took off. His mind flashed back to that first day. He thought of all the money in his wallet, and the ID. 

Ryan didn't know what he was doing until the bang of the gun startled him back to reality. The mugger was no longer running away. He was on the ground, unmoving. Ryan's finger was still on the cold trigger. Slowly, he lowered the gun. He half-expected someone to show up, but it was unlikely. Nobody in Los Santos heard gunshots and got curious.

He got back to his feet and covered the distance between himself and the body laying on the pavement. Ryan felt nothing as he looked at the pool of blood. He simply crouched down and took his wallet back. After hesitating for a moment, he searched the mugger, too.

As he opened the door to his apartment that morning, he was a couple hundred dollars richer. He set the gun on the coffee table and fell asleep on the couch.

His second kill was three months later.

By then he had tried every possible method to put the first one out of his mind. Nothing worked. Every night, he thought about it. Some nights, he relived it. He never could tell if those were dreams or nightmares. Ryan didn't know what had happened to the body. All he knew was that the police never knocked on his door, and nobody had tried to kill him in revenge. He thought even more often about all the money he had gotten from the mugger. The three hundred and some odd dollars had done him well in the months after. He got his motorcycle fixed somewhat and ate a few actual meals. Life was good. But then the money ran out and he was back to the usual. That's when the idea popped into his head. Instead of immediately shutting that thought out, he let it take up some space in his brain. By the next day, he had a half-formed plan and a smidge of confidence.

He wished he could say he killed someone who deserved it, like a trafficker or some abusive parent. But he did not. He knew absolutely nothing personal about the man he killed on the street corner that Friday. All he knew was that his wallet had a debit card, cash, and a pin number scribbled on the back of a business card. The nearest ATM that he knew didn't actually have a functioning camera was down the street. He didn't spare a second glance to the dead man as he strolled down the sidewalk, withdrew the money, and left the card on the ground there. His brain was on overdrive and his body felt like it was electric. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was easily carrying him through a natural high. The next day, he bought a cheap skull mask and things got a bit out of hand.

A few years went by in that fashion. His anonymous reputation stayed mostly within his part of Los Santos for the first year or two, but before long he gained a bit of a name. He didn't choose it, but he went with it anyway. A month or so after the name “Vagabond” stuck, he received an offer while sitting on his motorcycle in a back alley. The man who approached him was visibly tense. Ryan couldn't blame him, but he did find something oddly satisfying about listening to someone else stumble over their words. It was a simple job. One gang pissed off the other. They wanted a hit, and they wanted it to count. Ryan stared at the nervous man, unblinking for a few moments. When he finally got bored of watching the other man squirm, he simply nodded. Then he started his bike, revved the engine just to be a dick, and took off. He needed no further information. Ryan knew what he was doing, and God damn he did it well.

He took his time with the guy he was set on. His garage was easy to find, and it was obvious he lived there, too. A mix of customers and members of his gang came and went until around two in the morning, when he would close the shop doors and turn off the lights. Ryan slipped in through an upstairs window around midnight. By then, the regular customers had cleared out and it was all gang members. He needed the audience. Silently, he made his way to the upstairs office. It was a bit annoying how oblivious they all were to his presence. His footsteps fell silent on the smooth floor as he spotted his target sitting at a desk. He slid in the half open door and moved slowly. When he was only a foot or so behind the chair, the man finally seemed to realize he wasn't alone. The air was thick and the world was frozen as they both remained entirely still for a moment longer. Then, in one swift move, Ryan had a rag in the man's mouth to stop his attempt at screaming. He pulled his knife, tilted the man's head back, and cleanly slit his throat. The motion was fluid and practiced.

Ryan carefully pulled him from the chair and lugged the man over his shoulder. He made his way out of the room and to the railing overlooking the bottom floor of the garage. The other men were all gathered around a table, playing what looked like poker.

Their game was cut off as their friend's dead body crashed through the table. They screamed and a few scrambled for their guns. But by the time they had them pointed at the second floor, there was nothing to shoot.

The Vagabond tore away on his motorcycle.

And so it went. Ryan built a living around doing something that he found came naturally to him. He kept his job at the bar, still jumbling his words and leaving out phrases on the rare occasion someone cared enough to speak to him. When he was offered a better paying job serving drinks instead of cleaning up vomit, Ryan turned it down. He told his boss that he didn't know enough about alcohol to take a job mixing it. They both knew it was an excuse to not talk to more people than necessary.

He hated how long he would go without making conversation. There were things he wanted to say, a whole host of jokes he had missed out on for fear his enthusiasm would wreck the punchline. He also didn't like the way his silence made people look at him. Sure, he killed people for a living. And yeah, maybe he got a bit of a thrill out of it. But that didn't make him any less a social creature, and those people didn't know any of that was his doing anyway.

His thirties were approaching when Ryan finally fucked up. His daily life was markedly unremarkable. He had moved out of the apartment when his ability to easily cover rent every month while working as a cleaner roused some suspicion among other tenants. Cutting all connections there, he made his way to the other side of the city and signed a new lease for a loft apartment in a building where people were too busy to give a shit about his presence. He ditched his bike as well and used his savings to get a car instead. The black and green Zentorno was a bit much, but for once he was slightly comfortable with indulging himself. He kept it parked in an abandoned garage a block or two away from his apartment building and tried his best to only use it when he was taking a job. Unfortunately, the decision had immediate consequences only a month later.

Blood coated his leather jacket, some of it splattered on his mask. He kneeled down to pull his knife out of the dying woman's stomach and ignored the screaming as she bled out on the floor. He had to move quickly.

The sirens in the distance reached his ears just as he thought about how long he'd been there.

Groaning, Ryan turned on his heel and walked quickly over to the bar. He reached over and slapped the underside of the counter a few times before his hand hit something that crinkled. He grabbed hold of it and ripped it off, the duct tape holding it there giving way. The small package was shoved into his jacket pocket.

His pace was faster as the sirens got louder. He was mostly certain nobody had gotten the chance to hit the emergency call button before he'd dispatched the small crew, so it was throwing him for a loop. He'd been extra careful since the precinct was only a few blocks away from the crew's hideout.

As he stepped outside, he found his car still waiting for him. His brain clicked and the connection was made. They knew his fucking car. It shouldn't have been a surprise.

“God damn it.” He mumbled before he slid over the hood, threw the door open, and jumped in. He slammed it closed behind him and took off down the street. 

The red and blue lights came into view within seconds. He turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a moving truck as he blew through the intersection. The lamp-lit streets were as busy as ever. Ryan's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Thankfully, he knew those streets. He knew the alleys and the dead ends, because knowing them kept him alive. A glance in his rearview mirror let him know there were about five cop cars tailing him. He could only imagine how excited they were about being right on the heels of the Vagabond. His sloppiness was their benefit. But Ryan had been in chases before, so he didn't let it get to him. He took his next right onto a short street and hung another immediate right before the fleet of patrol cars got around the first corner. His move after that was a left, which should have brought him to an empty backstreet.

Instead, he met a wall of red and blue lights.

He grimaced. It was too tight to double back without hitting a building or flipping the car. There were no turns he could take before he got to them. Before he could throw it in reverse, more lights in his mirror cut that option off, too. Just as he was considering testing to see if his car would make a half decent battering ram, a burst of light and wave of sound made him slam the breaks.

The wall of cops went up in flames as the cars exploded. The ground shook a bit, and then he heard another boom. He didn't have to turn around to know the police behind him were burning as well. Ryan froze there for a few moments.

Once he was back in his own head, he bailed out of the car and took off sprinting the way he had came. There was no way for him to get his car around either of the burning masses of metal, but he could easily slink by and get the hell out of Dodge on foot. The air was crisp and his breaths were even while his feet pounded on the concrete. He was a few yards away from the second explosion when he felt two needles pierce his jacket and embed in his back. Had he not been running full speed, the electric shock probably wouldn't have knocked him out. But he was, and he tripped, and his head found the hard ground before his spasming arms could save himself. The world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gavin, he looks awful.”

The shrill voice pulled Ryan back into reality. He gasped, coughed, and spoke before he could stop himself. “Thanks.” He mumbled, wincing at his own strained voice before his eyes were even open.

Someone screeched, and finally Ryan’s body complied enough that he could open his eyes and try to get a read on things. It was dark. Cold air hitting his face let him know his mask was off. He instinctively struggled and found his wrists were bound with zip ties. Just as he was about to snap them, knowing full well he had the ability, Ryan paused and decided against it. He was in a van of some sort, and he was not alone. There would be no immediate escape, especially when looking around showed him how very not-alone he was.

There were four other people in the vehicle. One was driving, of course. A second was sitting in the passenger seat but was totally turned around so they could look at him. The other two were on either side of him. He was stuck, for now. His vision was slowly focusing enough to start making out details, at least.

“You're so fucking lucky he's not dead.” The person in the passenger seat spoke, the same high voice he heard earlier. Their eyes were on the person to Ryan's left.

“What, you think I don't know my job? Bloody hell Geoff, this isn't our first kidnapping.”

Now that caught his attention.

“I just love how you're using your actual fucking names in front of the god damn Vagabond.” That came from whoever was on his right. That person was obviously trying to have as little contact with Ryan as possible, pressed up against the door.

Both of the people in the backseat with Ryan looked a few years younger than him. Somewhat encouraging, since newbies tended to slip up. The one in the passenger seat, apparently called Geoff, was older and bearded. He couldn't really see who was driving. Like usual, Ryan chose to say nothing. Instead, he simply listened.

Geoff spoke again. “Don't call it a kidnapping, that sounds creepy.”

“A man-snatching?”

“Adult-swiping?”

“Can both of you please, for once in your lives, shut the hell up?” Geoff pleaded. “You're making me look stupid in front of the Vagabond.” Their voice was practically a whine.

It was a bit surreal. Ryan was half-convinced he was having some sort of awful dream, or a terrible trip. Whatever was happening, it needed to end. He had places to be, and stuck in a van with a bunch of bickering idiots was not one of those places, even if it was sort of entertaining to watch. He leaned forward to look out the heavily tinted window, but stopped when a gun was pressed directly against his temple.

“Lean back. Don't move.” The person to his right practically growled, finger on the trigger. Ryan slowly leaned back against the seat, working hard to keep his breathing totally even.

“Michael. Gun. Down.” Geoff said, looking tense all over.

Another couple of seconds passed before Michael lowered the gun, eyes still locked on Ryan with a wild ferocity. Nobody else in the car spoke after that. Geoff settled in the seat correctly, only glancing a look back every once in a while. Ryan could feel Gavin fidgeting and saw him wringing his hands in an obvious sign of anxiety. He couldn't blame him. Being stuck in a small space with the Vagabond could stress anyone out, even if he was seemingly bound. After what seemed to be about ten minutes or so, Ryan felt the driver stop the van and put it in park. Geoff immediately scrambled out of the vehicle and a moment later Michael's door was opened. It was still night out, so Ryan figured he wasn't unconscious very long. He could also tell they were still in the city, but he had already guessed that based on all the turns and stops the drive had taken. Michael slid out of the open door, gun still in his hand and at the ready. He looked to Ryan expectantly.

Having no desire to be tased again, Ryan quickly got out of the van. As soon as his shoes hit pavement, he started looking around. Unfortunately, he couldn't recognize the building they were parked outside of. Just another standard-looking tower. The van was parked right in front of the door and blocking the view from the street, so he couldn't see any signs either. Suddenly a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and pushed his head down so all he could see was the ground. He heard the van door close behind him and was pushed forward by a hand at his back. 

“Come on love, let's get a move on.” Gavin said from behind, the grip in his hair tightening at the same time.

With a grunt, Ryan moved forward, following Geoff and Michael. He heard the van drive off but didn't bother trying to look back. The glass doors opened and the four of them walked inside. All Ryan could see was the floor, hardwood and spotless. He was led to an elevator and shoved in. He didn't see what floor number was pushed.

It must have been high, because there was a good amount of time before the speaker dinged, the doors opened again, and Ryan was escorted out.

He was led to, and sat down on, a surprisingly comfortable couch. The hand in his hair finally let go and he looked around. Typical penthouse. There was a massive window in front of him and the view of the city gave him slightly more info on where exactly they had brought him. Of course, he still didn't even know who they were. The Geoff one had seemed somewhat familiar, but he couldn't quite remember from where.

The three seemed fine with leaving him by himself on the couch, and Ryan found himself severely doubting Gavin's earlier confidence. Apparently he wasn't their first abduction, but he was already certain he'd make it out of this okay. He craned his neck to look back at the elevator. There didn't seem to be a keypad. Looking the other way showed his captors were in what seemed to be the kitchen. They also looked like they were quietly arguing. Fantastic. With minimal effort, Ryan thrust his wrists against his stomach and snapped the zip tie. He checked to see if the popping noise had alerted them. Nothing. Wow. Rolling his eyes, he slowly scooted to the edge of the couch and planted his feet more firmly on the ground in preparation to make a run for it. There were at least three places to take cover on his way out just in case.

A calming breath.

One more, just to center himself.

Ryan broke into a sprint.

He turned around the back of the couch and cleared the small set of steps in one leap, his hand slapping the button as he ignored the sudden yelling from the kitchen.

“Hey! He's--”

“Don't you fucking shoot someone in my penthouse, Michael!”

The screech was too late, as a gunshot rang out right after and the wall next to Ryan's head was embedded with a bullet. The doors opened and he got in, smashing the button for the roof repeatedly. Another bullet whizzed through the closing doors and smashed the mirror on the back wall of the elevator. Ryan looked at the destroyed glass and whipped his head back to catch a glimpse of the approaching gunman right before the doors closed and the elevator lurched into motion.

Ascending to the roof was quick, thank God. In a few seconds he was there. The helipad on top was empty, so he raced to check the four edges of the building. Three deadly drops, and one with a shorter building just to the side. He wagered he had about half a shot at making it. Just then, the door to the stairwell opened with a metallic clang.

When he turned around, it was to see… a sad sight. The three had not handled running up the stairs well, panting and cursing at one another. They got their shit together fast, though, and spotted him. He took a step backwards, towards the edge.

“Oh, holy shit--”

“I can shoot him.”

“What would that even accomplish!?” Geoff yelled, briefly looking away from Ryan to glare at Michael. He just shrugged. Groaning, Geoff brought their attention to the man at the edge.

“That's a long fuckin’ drop.” They said, nodding to the edge of the roof.

Ryan nodded. He took another step back. Gavin fucking squeaked.

“Come on,” said Geoff, “we just wanna talk, man.”

He scoffed at that. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. Listen, man, we know you. We know what you do.”

He'd already figured as much. Still, the confirmation was not great. The wind pushed some of Ryan's hair into his face but he didn't bother to move it. Raising his hand would probably just set off the trigger-happy man. Geoff continued when they realized Ryan wasn't going to be answering them.

“We want to hire you.”

Ryan was suddenly not totally certain he had actually woken up from being knocked unconscious, because there was no fucking way these idiots would go through all this just to hire him. Sure, he was elusive, but not enough to warrant an entire kidnapping scenario. The utter confusion must have shown on his face, a dreadful result of them having taken his mask, because Geoff started to speak again.

Their voice was quieter, more cautious. “Long-term.” They said. “As a crew member.”

None of it made anymore sense. Who kidnaps a potential associate? Sure, they had saved him from the cops. But they had also tased him, abducted him, taken his mask, and shot at him. It didn't really spell out “friendly work environment.” Ryan looked back over the edge at the lower building. He needed to get the hell out of there. He didn't even know who the hell they were.

“Who?” He blurted out, grimacing at how monosyllabic he was. The three watching him seemed to perk up at it, though.

Geoff and Gavin both grinned. Michael rolled his eyes. When Geoff spoke again, they looked rather proud.

“We're the Fake AH Crew.”

 

“What the hell is that?”


	3. Chapter 3

Ryan had clear memories of the last time he was that close to the edge of a roof. He'd been sitting at the edge, legs dangling off, still just sixteen. The sun was setting over the small town he'd called home back then. Looking out, the dim street lights were all that gave him any sort of hope. They morphed into pictures of better things in his head, a brighter skyline across a phenomenal city. His city. Leaning back on his hands, Ryan knew with absolute certainty where he needed to be. All he had to worry about was getting there.

As he stood at the edge of a roof once more, he wondered how he ever got there in the first place. Then he ignored the passing thought, brushed it aside before it could gain any ground. There were still three people starting at him, and none of them looked particularly pleased.

“What do you mean 'what the hell is that’!? We're the Fakes! Biggest, baddest assholes in Los Santos. Don't you watch the news?” Geoff's shrill voice showed just how pissed they were about Ryan's confusion.

So, Ryan took a moment to think. Of course he watched the news. He had to make sure he was rarely in it. But he couldn't for the life of him summon any knowledge of whatever the hell Geoff was talking about. He just stared at them, not responding, letting his silence speak for him. Eventually, Michael sighed.

“Remember the hit on the Union Depository last month?” He asked.

He thought about it for a minute before realization dawned. He pointed an accusing finger at Geoff.

“No.”

“Oh, c'mon, it was one bad job--”

“No.” Ryan said again, turning his body back to the edge.

“Nobody even died! We're all still here! We get heists done all the time, just--”

“Nope.” He was faced away from them completely, taking in a deep breath as he readied himself. Maybe he'd actually make the jump and not splatter on the concrete.

“Ten thousand.”

Hm.

Ryan turned his head back to them just barely. They'd seen enough of his face. Once it was clear he was listening again, Geoff started to talk.

“Monthly, minimum. We can pay you ten thousand every month, and more if you stick around. All you have to do is show up for jobs, stay on-call, and not kill any of us. Easy, right?”

He'd done jobs for a lot more than ten thousand. But that wasn't reliable, consistent pay. It wasn't uncommon for him to have months between big jobs, or months where he'd have to go totally off the radar due to a slip-up. Monthly pay would be a cushion. Insurance. That actually sounded pretty nice. What didn't sound nice was working with utter dipshits. He'd watched the footage from the Union Depository heist, if you could even call it a heist. The robbers had failed miserably and made off with what seemed to be less that what they'd started with, given the exploded vehicles. It had been entertaining to watch. It was, however, far from inspiring.

From what he saw, the group had the right idea. They had seemed like a real threat at the beginning. But things had quickly fallen apart. Poor timing, lousy execution, and a ridiculous amount of useless screaming turned it into a live action shit-show broadcasted to the entire nation. A solid example of everything that could possibly go wrong while attempting a high stakes heist, and how not to handle those situations.

Needless to say, receiving a job offer from the Fakes after that debacle was like winning a free ticket for a ride on the Titanic.

Ryan bit his lip as he thought it over. Worse comes to worst, he could always just ditch them, right? Their attempt at kidnapping this time around was miraculously unimpressive. He could definitely escape again if they tried anything, and there were other cities out there.

“Am I gonna have to cut off my left pinky or something? Like an, an ini-nitiation.”

Geoff squinted at him. “An initiation?”

“That.”

“Hell no, man, we're not the fuckin’ Yakuza.”

Humming, Ryan took two pointed steps backwards, away from the edge. He still didn't turn around completely, all too aware of his exposed face.

“Mask. Then we talk.” His voice left no room for question.

He could hear the grin in Geoff's voice.

“Yes, sir. Gavin, you heard the man.”

After a minute or so of Ryan just standing there, looking out at the city, he heard something slide across the concrete roof of the building and felt it tap his left foot. Still not turning back, he knelt down and grabbed his mask. He hastily slid it on and immediately felt more relaxed. More powerful. People feared the Vagabond-- feared the skull and the leather and the knives. People didn't fear Ryan Haywood-- the soft face and slurred words and dad jeans.

He felt far more in control when he turned back towards the others. They all avoided looking directly at him, Geoff's gaze settling on the building to the right of their own as they spoke. “Come on in. I promise we probably won't zip tie you this time.” They flashed a quick grin at him, then made for the elevator. Ryan followed.

Never before had a more awkward elevator ride occured.

The silent patrons, the nervous shifting, the fake-casual glancing around; all topped off with “Canadian Sunset” bleeding into their ears from the outdated speakers above.

Ryan loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was short. I didn't want to put anything more in it because then it would have had to be ridiculously long to wrap some things up. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Earlier, Ryan hadn't looked too seriously into the details of the penthouse. This time he paid attention as he stepped over the broken glass, out of the elevator, and back into the luxury living space. One step in and he took note of the bowl of keys sitting on the table by the private elevator. A second step and he realized there was someone in the kitchen he didn't recognize. A redhead. Tall. Judging by the scent in the air, he was cooking something. He was pretty sure he smelled mushrooms.

“Glad to see you're not a splatter on the concrete.”

The man didn't look at him when he spoke, still busy by the stove. Ryan chose not to answer and instead continued towards the couch he'd been placed on earlier. This time he sat of his own free will.

“He said yes.” Geoff smirked. The man stopped what he were doing and slowly turned to face the two of them. Ryan rolled his eyes and corrected them.

“Maybe.”

Geoff sighed.

“More money? Cars? Hookers? Listen, I can--”

“No.”

“Fine!” They threw their arms up. “No hookers. What do you want, dude?”

And, well, that was a pretty good question, because Ryan didn't know what he wanted. Nothing really stuck out. He thought carefully for a few moments, not caring about the other's mounting impatience. When he answered, he spoke slowly.

“I help plan the jobs.”

“Why the fuck would I trust you?”

“No clue.”

The answer seemed to piss Geoff off more. They groaned and ran a hand through their hair, ruffling the messy curls even further. Ryan grinned under the mask.

“Jack, I'm throwing this one to you. Please figure this out before I walk him back to the roof myself.” Their voice was a whine, aimed at the guy in the kitchen. Jack. Ryan turned his attention to him in time to catch the eye roll lessened by a poorly hidden smile. Geoff didn't wait for an answer, already walking down the hallway on the far side of the living room. He heard a door open, then shut.

“So,” Jack said, cutting something on the counter and not looking at Ryan. “I take it you don't trust us. Can't blame you. We're kinda… unconventional. Have you ever planned a heist before?”

He didn't answer. Jack sighed.

“Listen, I get that the whole silent assassin thing is your shtick, but you're gonna have to talk if you wanna work with us. Especially if you wanna help plan shit.”

Ryan stood, which made the two previously silent younger men reach for their guns. Gavin and Michael watched him, the former wavering under the harsh glare sent his way. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, felt the small package still there, and walked to the man in the kitchen. Once there, he leaned against the counter and spoke just loud enough for Jack to hear him.

“Why do you need me?”

“You've seen our past few heists, right?”

“Fair. But why me? It's…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the word.

“.... suspicious?”

He growled under his breath, waving a hand around.

“Whatever. Why me?”

Jack hummed and didn't answer right away. Instead he turned off the stove and moved the pan to an empty spot on the counter next to a pot of pasta. Ryan watched with mounting annoyance as he started grating a block of parmesan over the sauce, the cheese melting into the mixture.

“Can you grab some plates? They're in that cabinet.” He said, gesturing to one of the cabinets just behind Ryan's head. Hesitantly, and without turning his body away from Jack, he reached behind him and opened the cabinet. He turned his head just enough to look and found himself eye to barrel with a snub-nosed revolver. For a moment he froze, his free hand twitching at his side, eager to grab the gun and use it to get the fuck out there without resorting to jumping off a roof. He had to force himself to think reasonably. The money. Think of the money. Carefully, he pushed the small, powerful gun aside and grabbed the stack of plates behind it. He set them on the counter near Jack, who was busy stirring the sauce in with the pasta.

“Thank you.” Jack said as he started plating food. “And welcome to the crew. Be here Saturday to help plan the next heist.”

The other man finally looked up, locking eyes with Ryan, no semblance of fear in spite of the dark mask.

“It's gonna be a good one.”

\---

They offered to give him a ride home, but he rejected that offer in favor of walking the whole way back. His car was a lost cause and he refused to let them get anymore information on him. The idiots knew enough already. Stepping onto the dark street and getting a much better look around revealed it wasn't a far walk anyway, 15 minutes at most, 20 if he dropped off the package along the way. He melted into the dark alleys and bled through the shadows as he made his way through the underbelly of Los Santos. His thoughts were on select things, like how he was unarmed, or how he had agreed to help a crew of morons. Nothing reassuring. 

He rolled the small package over and over again in his pocket, resenting the easy job that landed him in a whole new mess. His pace slowed when he rounded a corner and slid into the narrow space between two buildings. Emerging on the other side placed him in a tiny backyard with dead grass and an empty dog house, the wood of it half rotted. He hopped over the splintered mess and knocked on the back door. None of the lights in the delapidated building were on, the whole shitty neighborhood silent and still. Minutes wore on, each feeling longer than the last. He was ready to pound harder on the old door when it opened just a crack and a hand jutted out from the darkness.

Rolling his eyes at the reclusiveness, he pulled the package out of his pocket and put it in the offered hand. Immediately, it was snatched away and the door slammed shut. He waited. Eventually it opened again, no more than the last time. A quiet, low voice spoke.

“You're late.”

“Cops. Where's the money?”

As an answer, a brown paper bag was shoved through the crack and held out to him. He went to grab it, but the hand held firm.

“You killed all of them? Every last one?”

He glared into the darkness.

“I do my job.”

The grip released and Ryan shoved the bag into his pocket, holding it tightly there. There was a moment where it seemed like the person inside the house was going to say something, but that passed and the door was slammed shut again. He sighed and got out of there as fast as he could, wanting nothing more than to get back home and go the fuck to sleep. Being tased and passing out hadn't really counted as peaceful dreaming and he was exhausted.

The rest of his walk was a mix of dodging passing headlights and humming nonsense to himself to stay sharp. There was no such thing as a safe midnight stroll in a city like that.

His whole body screamed when his apartment building finally came into view, longing for his bed and for the past 24 hours to come to an end. He jogged the rest of the way to the back of the building, knowing he'd have to use the fire escape to get to his apartment without risking being spotted in a black mask and bloody jacket by another tenant. Just as he was about to start heading up the ladder, a shadow moved on the edge of the building. He looked over in time to see someone move away from the wall and turn around the far side of the building, heading towards the front. It was too dark and too far away for him to make out any details, but the figure didn't seem rushed or frantic. He bit his lip, looking between the ladder rungs and where the person had disappeared. After a moment, he hesitantly started his ascencion up to his own window, trying not to think about what was probably a late night smoker.

Sleep was eager to claim him as soon as he slipped off his shoes, pulled off the mask, and collapsed in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not dead

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr at hanginwithlilj.tumblr.com


End file.
